The Maid of Ireland

by Susan Wiggs

  He slammed his opponent against the ground. A rush of breath flowed from behind the helm. The silk veil snagged on Wesley’s gauntlet. He heard a ripping noise and a metallic clatter as the helm came off and rolled away.

  Wesley lifted his hand. One chop to the windpipe and—

  “Good God Almighty!” The words burst from him on a flood of astonishment. Lying beneath him, awaiting the death blow, with tawny hair framing a savagely lovely face, was Caitlin MacBride.

  Five

  She stared at him, frozen by awe and disbelief. Her eyes were mirrors of fury, reflecting the blaze of the fire. Her mouth worked soundlessly; then a furious cry burst from her: “Seize him!”

  Strong arms jerked him backward. A blunt object clubbed his hand. Dull, cold pain shot up his arm. Fingers gripped his hair and yanked his head back, baring his throat.

  “Move back, my lady,” someone said, “else you’ll soon be soiled by English blood.” A blade flashed in the firelight.

  The tendons in Wesley’s throat stretched to the point of snapping and tickled in anticipation of the slice of the blade.

  “No!” Caitlin scrambled to her feet and grabbed the drawn-back arm. “We’ll spare this one. For now.” Bending gracefully, she retrieved her helm and shook out the veil.

  The pressure on Wesley’s neck eased, enabling him to take in the scene. The English had been routed. A few floundered in the lake. Three sprawled on the ground. He recognized Ladyman, horseless, melting into the shadows. The rest, presumably, had fled. Some of the Irish moved across the firelit field, gathering discarded weapons, catching riderless horses, and stripping the corpses of their valuables.

  “Spare him?” asked Wesley’s captor. It was Rory Breslin; Wesley recognized the deep rumble of the Gael’s voice.

  “Why the devil should we be sparing an English spy?” the big warrior asked. “We never have before. And this Sassenach stole into our stronghold and tried to learn our secrets.”

  Caitlin tucked her helm under her arm. Her endless legs, lovingly hugged by tight leather trews beneath a short tunic, took her on a wide, unhurried circle around Wesley. She regarded him like a trader sizing up an inferior bit of horseflesh.

  “He interests me,” she stated. “I should like to know why he entered my household under false pretenses and lied to us.”

  “But the man almost killed you. It’s the closest anyone’s ever come to—”

  “Nevertheless, perhaps he’s of more use to us alive than dead. A spy as bold as this one might be worth something to Hammersmith.”

  Someone tossed the reins of the black to her. “Bind him and give me the rope,” she ordered. Then, for the first time, she spoke directly to Wesley. “You’ve a long march ahead of you, my good friend.” Her very words made a mockery of the moments they had shared at Clonmuir. “I do hope you’ll cooperate.”

  As Rory bound his wrists so tightly his fingers went numb, Wesley resisted the impulse to wince. He made a parody of a courtly bow. “My lady, your wish is my command.”

  She curled her lip in distaste. Yet in her firelit eyes he saw a brief wistfulness. “I knew there was no more magic in Ireland,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

  An ache of regret flared in Wesley’s chest. He had come to Ireland to romance secrets out of Caitlin MacBride and to destroy the chieftain of the Fianna. Instead, he had managed to get himself captured. And in unraveling the tangle he had made of things, he would have to hurt her.

  If she didn’t kill him first. She swung into the saddle. He had never seen anyone, male or female, move with her grace, her movements as fluid as a mountain stream spilling over rocks. Her center on the horse was faultless, her posture perfect, all the more astonishing because he knew he had bruised her badly.

  “God forgive me for hurting a woman,” he muttered.

  She jerked the rope that bound him. “What did you say, Englishman?”

  “I never would have attacked you if I’d known you were a woman.”

  “English chivalry,” she snapped. “You’d not skewer a woman with a sword, but you’d steal our land and leave us to starve. More fool you, because I would not have hesitated to kill you.”

  “You nearly succeeded.” A lingering sense of disbelief thrummed in his voice. “But thank you for sparing my life.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, Mr. Hawkins. Before long, you may be wishing you’d died a quick death among your friends.” She nudged the sleek horse with her knees and started into the woods. The rope pulled taut. Wesley lurched forward, stumbled, then regained his footing. Half running, he forced himself to keep pace with the trotting horse. A jagged stitch seized his side, and his breathing came fast and harsh.

  Caitlin’s warriors surrounded them, some ahead, others bringing up the rear. Wesley tallied no more than a dozen men. A dozen, yet Cromwell swore the Fianna had the strength to best legions of Roundheads.

  To draw his mind from discomfort, Wesley concentrated on the extraordinary woman dragging him through the wild woods. He still reeled with the shock of his discovery. Beneath the tunic her armor, which must have been cast especially for her, molded her lithe form with delicate artistry. She rode with a dogged will that a cavalry captain would envy.

  Tripping over rocks and ducking under branches, he tried to equate this new Caitlin with the vulnerable woman he had met on the strand. Even then he had guessed at the substance of her character, but never could he have anticipated this. He remembered wondering about the visions that lurked behind her fierce, sad eyes; he had meant to ask her.

  He didn’t have to ask her now.

  Caitlin MacBride, the leader of the Fianna. She was Joan, the martyred Maid of Orleans, incarnate. A century before, that young woman, crude of manner but possessed of an abiding dream, had led men to victory and laid waste to English claims on the French throne. Men thrice her age and thrice her size obeyed her smallest order. Such a woman was rare and dangerous, he realized with a shiver. Men followed her, enemies feared her, and Wesley had to stop her.

  “Well?” she said over her shoulder. “You’re quiet as a sleeping saint. Saying your prayers, are you?”

  Her fury had subsided. Yet he felt no easier about his situation. “You’ve given me much to ponder, Caitlin MacBride.”

  “Ah. And just what would you be pondering?”

  “Joan of Arc,” he said, trying not to pant.

  “Joan of Arc? And who would she be? Your lady love?”

  “You don’t know?” He leapt over a knotted tree root.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I’ll tell you about her some day. It’s a long story.”

  “You might not live long enough.” Her laughter cut him like a knife.

  They jogged along in silence for a time. Wesley felt the distrustful stares of the others pricking at him. God, what tortures did these men have in store for him?

  He had escaped being tortured to death at Tyburn, he told himself. He would escape this disaster, too.

  For Laura. Her image, sweetly gilt by a halo of paternal love, drifted through his fading consciousness. God knew what Cromwell would do with the innocent child if Wesley failed. If he failed. If he failed....

  The thought kept brutal pace with his every painful footfall. Caitlin refused to slacken the punishing pace. The woods grew thicker with spiny underbrush and rocky ground. Wesley’s foot slammed into something hard and jagged. White-hot pain shot up his leg and coursed like fire through his body. Brilliant light exploded behind his eyes. He was aware of his feet moving, his legs pumping, his pride overcoming the urge to flop to the ground. He felt his mind moving away from the pain, sliding deep into a familiar abyss of warm, white comfort.

  He focused on the inner light. His breath slowed to match the rhythmical cadence. Always it happened like this, brilliance pulsing all around him, a burning shield against pain and suffering.

  “Mr. Hawkins? Mr. Hawkins!” The strong melody of Caitlin’s voice penetrated the moment.

&nb
sp; The blindness peeled away in layers, like living flesh being skinned from a hide. Clenching his jaw against the tearing pain, Wesley opened his eyes. The strange thoughts swirled away before he could grasp them.

  The war party had stopped. Reeling with agony and exhaustion, he became aware of his surroundings. They had climbed the foothills west of the lake. Shallow caves, hidden by reedy dry grass and bushes, dotted the cliff sides. Wisps of smoke puffed from one of the larger caves. Caitlin dismounted. A girl scurried forward and took the reins.

  “Thank you, Brigid.” Caitlin unwound Wesley’s rope. “See that my horse gets sweetened oats and a fine brisk rub.”

  Wesley fell gasping to his knees.

  Brigid regarded him with awe and fear. “Is it a Sassenach, my lady?”

  “Aye,” said Caitlin, pointedly eyeing Wesley’s blousy pantaloons. “A regular tight pants.”

  “I’ve never seen a Roundhead before. But where are his horns and his tail?”

  Caitlin laughed. “You’ve been listening to Tom Gandy again.”

  Brigid clasped the reins to her chest. “Oh, my lady, he tells such wondrous tales. I do so want to ride with you.”

  “Perhaps one day you will, a storin. See to my horse. Off with you, now.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, the child led the horse away.

  Caitlin plucked a cork out of a leather flask and thrust it at Wesley. “Drink slowly, now,” she said, “else you’ll puke it all back up.”

  Even through his agony Wesley’s pride rose up. He did not want her to see him puke. He sucked slowly at the flask, letting the cold, sweet water trickle down his parched throat.

  “How far have we come?” he asked in a faint, hoarse voice.

  “Some ten miles, I’d say.” Dawn had broken, and the rose-gold light of the rising sun gave her the look of an angel. But the gleam in her eyes reminded him of a fairy demon. “I’m pleasantly surprised by your stamina. I expected you to collapse after a mile.” A strange softness came over her implacable features. “What a pity you aren’t one of us.”

  “Aye.” Fatigue crept up to claim him. “A great pity, indeed.” With that, he pitched forward where he knelt.

  * * *

  Throughout the day, Caitlin kept a surreptitious eye on her captive. Not that there was any need. Rory had tethered Hawkins’s bound hands to a tree, and besides, the man slept the sleep of the dead.

  Still, she could not keep her gaze from wandering to the large Englishman lying in the shade of a sycamore tree. She had never taken a prisoner before. Least of all a deceitful Sassenach who had tried to worm his way into her heart.

  “I doubt he bites,” said Tom Gandy.

  “And what makes you believe I was wondering about that? Don’t you think we’d best have a meeting and plan our next move?”

  Tom took out a chunk of beeswax and drew it carefully along his bowstring. “Aye.”

  Careful not to betray her weariness, Caitlin walked with Tom to the largest of the caves where the men lounged, some of them sleeping, others quaffing ale and dickering over the meager spoils of the skirmish.

  “We’re in luck,” said Tom, sitting back on his heels.

  “The Irish are always lucky,” said Rory.

  “A fine thought, that,” muttered Caitlin, “if only it were true.”

  “I’ve spied out Hammersmith’s army. He’s well supplied with flour and lard. Some livestock, too. He thinks to fool us by putting his train in the vanguard rather than the rear.”

  “We’ll take it,” Caitlin said decisively. “Without supplies, our friend Titus Hammersmith will run back to Galway.”

  “And you’ll have a fine fat bullock for Logan Rafferty,” said Rory.

  “That would be a blessing,” said Caitlin. “Although it would take a bit of explaining to tell him where we got it.”

  “Shall we topple the powder and shot into the lake?” asked Rory.

  “Yes,” said Caitlin. “It’s of no use to us, anyway, since we have so few guns.”

  “We’ll have to get our hands on that food,” said Conn. He rubbed his bandaged side, cursing the cut Hawkins had dealt him in the fight.

  She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Refugees, turned out of their homes by the Roundheads, came in a steady stream to the western provinces, bringing sickness, despair, and starvation to the very gates of Clonmuir. “I have an idea,” she said. “Hammersmith’s expecting an attack by land. So we’ll approach—and leave—by water.”

  The men broke into smiles as she explained her plan. Under cloak of night, archers would harry the vanguard while the rest crept up from the banks of the lake and toppled the supply carts into the water, seizing stores and stowing them in the swift, light curragh.

  “You make a fine chieftain, Caitlin MacBride,” declared Brian. “I only wish you had an army of thousands following you.”

  Her gaze moved around the circle of her friends. Broad of shoulder, straggly of beard, in threadbare tunics and battered armor, the men resembled a band of pirates. Yet their loyalty enclosed her in an embrace of camaraderie that made her glad she was alive.

  A thickness rose in her throat. “Nay,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “Many’s the time I have considered begging Logan Rafferty for his men-at-arms, or enlisting the Irish soldiers banished to Connaught. But we don’t need them, don’t need their hunger for plunder and revenge, their quarreling factions and their prejudice against following a woman. The Fianna alone can hold its own against the English dogs.”

  She lifted a chipped horn cup and saluted them all. “I swear to God, I do not need a single man more. Except perhaps a priest, but they are all gone now.” She drank the bitter ale and smiled through a veil of tears. “Sleep now, my friends, for we’ve hard work ahead come nightfall.”

  She stole a nap from the quiet afternoon hours. Visions of Hawkins haunted her sleep, and she awoke feeling groggy and strangely off center. At twilight, the men gathered on the slope below the caves. Caitlin checked on Hawkins. He slumped against a tree, still asleep. The uncommon appeal of his face raised a disquieting clamor in her heart.

  She and her men prayed together, ancient blessings uttered in the tongue of their grandsires. Then they formed a circle, extending their right arms into the center so that their fingers touched. The moment hummed with magic, the energy of the group so overwhelming that it seemed all things were possible.

  Caitlin studied their strong, rugged faces, drew a deep breath, and shouted, “Fianna!”

  “Fianna!” they echoed, and began girding themselves for the raid. “Fianna!”

  The shout brought Wesley awake. Every muscle in his body, from his scalp to his toes, came alive with a fiery ache.

  “Accursed Fianna,” he muttered. It hurt to move his lips.

  “What’s that?” Tom Gandy sat on the ground an arm’s length away.

  “Nothing,” said Wesley. “Just a nightmare.”

  The band rode off, hooves and boots thudding on the sodden ground. Caitlin rode at the head, her slim body encased in armor, her veil fluttering like a banner over her hair, the golden harp on her black cotte flashing in the waning light.

  “She cuts quite a figure,” said Tom.

  “Indeed she does.”

  “I’m to stay back as your guard.” Tom opened a wicker basket. “Not that you need guarding, the way Rory bound your hands.”

  Wesley tried to flex his bloodless fingers. “I won’t tax your skills,” he said.

  “Good.” Tom dug in the basket. “For I’m no match for a great hulking fellow like you—at least, not physically.” Pausing, he drew something from the folds of his belt.

  Wesley gasped. It was a lock of Titus Hammersmith’s hair. “I consider myself forewarned,” he said.

  Tom smiled, tucked away the prize, and handed Wesley a crumbling biscuit. The morsel was mealy and gray, probably from the potatoes that had been added to stretch the flour.

  The biscuit dropped from his numb fingers. His sto
mach contracted with a pang of hunger. “I can’t eat with my hands so tightly bound,” he said.

  Tom helped himself to a biscuit. “You know, the Irish prisoners seized at Ballyshannon were made to eat off the ground with their hands tied behind their backs.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” said Wesley.

  “Lucky for you, I’m a compassionate man.” Tom’s thick fingers pried at the knots.

  Wesley tensed in readiness to attack. He didn’t relish the idea of pitting his own strength against a dwarf but his situation was desperate.

  “Ah, but you mustn’t even think of that,” said Tom Gandy, aiming a glance over Wesley’s shoulder.

  Wesley craned his neck. Several yards away sat a thick-set man idly swinging, as if it were a shepherd’s whistle, the largest sledgehammer Wesley had ever seen. His other arm was in a sling.

  The man tugged a curly black forelock in a mock salute.

  “That’s Liam the smith,” said Tom. “I believe you broke his arm last night.”

  “How do you do?” Wesley called.

  Liam scowled at his bad arm.

  “Lucky for you, he’s mute,” said Tom, “or you’d hear a fine stream of curses from him.”

  Resigned, and not a little worried about Liam the smith’s thoughts on guarding the man who had wounded him, Wesley sat still while Tom loosened the rope. Hot blood fed the tips of his fingers. The stinging pain reminded him of the day he had been drawn on a hurdle from the Tower to Tyburn.

  How far he had come since that day. Yet he seemed no closer to his goal. Laura remained Cromwell’s hostage. The blade of his cruelty hung over her tender neck, ready to fall the moment Wesley failed.

  He ate several biscuits and drank some rough beer. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he said, “What makes her think a dozen men can defeat Hammersmith’s legions?”

  “A dozen less two,” said Tom. “She’s done it before. And it’s not a matter of defeating them, but of outsmarting them.”

  “Was the Fianna her idea?”

  “Saints, no.” Tom laughed. “’Twas the idea of Finn MacCool, in the time before time.”